Maladie
by GrrraceUnderfire
Summary: LeBeau takes care of everyone, so when he falls victim to the latest virus making its way around the camp, who is going to look after him? It couldn't be his tough-as-nails English friend, could it? Dedicated to Glossina, who pointed out the LeBeau doesn't get enough TLC around here. No slash.


A vicious strain of influenza had made its way around Stalag 13 in the early winter of 1943, and as usual Louis LeBeau was needed everywhere.

Another pot of chicken broth? _D'accord_. A batch of Grandmere's healing chest balm, infused with peppermint and rosemary? _Certainment_. Tea with honey and a splash of lemon that was obtained from who knows where? _Bien sûr__._ LeBeau was anywhere and everywhere, helping Sergeant Wilson, tending his personal patients in Barracks 2, and even assisting the small troop of orderlies with the messier cleanups.

So it was both no surprise at all and a complete shock when LeBeau finally caught the bug. No surprise, because anyone would have been run down and exhausted after working like a dog for two weeks to take care of everyone else. And a shock, because no one could imagine a prisoner being sick without LeBeau being right there to nurse him back to health. It wasn't in the natural order of things for LeBeau to be the sick one.

It was Carter and Newkirk, two of the first victims of the flu bug, who realized how sick LeBeau was. They tried to rouse him out of bed for rollcall, and found him shaking with chills. It was Carter who helped Kinch prop LeBeau up against his shoulder during a coughing fit; it was Newkirk who took his temperature and immediately ran for Wilson.

When Wilson arrived at Barracks 2 with Newkirk hot on his heels, LeBeau was making a valiant attempt to stand for rollcall, leaning on Kinch and Carter and struggling to the door while Hogan dashed outside to ask Klink to excuse the sick man from _appell_. And Hogan prevailed. Klink too had been bowled over by the flu and had benefited from the little Frenchman's soup. Minutes into rollcall, Newkirk and Kinch were carrying LeBeau back inside to rest on the spare bunk in Colonel Hogan's quarters.

"There we are, all tucked up, little mate," Newkirk was saying as Hogan and Wilson entered the office. He had fashioned a pillow out of a pile of undershirts, and Kinch had gathered up Louis' thin blanket and Newkirk's even thinner to make LeBeau comfortable. As Hogan arrived, he added his own blanket to the pile and looked down with concern as Newkirk sat at the edge of the bunk, patting LeBeau's forehead with a cool cloth.

Wilson, meanwhile, was rummaging through his bag. "We don't have much, but a couple of aspirin should help," he grumbled. Hogan got a glass of water and let Newkirk administer the pills and water to his best friend.

Outwardly Newkirk wasn't the most solicitous of men, having spent a lifetime cultivating the impression that he didn't care much about anything or anyone. But when it came to his team mates in Barracks 2, he was a worrier. And when it came to LeBeau, any pretense of indifference slipped away completely. LeBeau and Newkirk were best friends, confidants, and a mutual aid society. There was nothing they wouldn't do for each another.

So it was Newkirk who sat beside LeBeau's bed all day, coaxed him to take sips of water, and prodded him to try the chicken broth that Klink had sent over in a gesture of appreciation. It was Newkirk who sat on the bunk with LeBeau leaning into his chest, holding a mug of soup, and urging him in soothing tones to have a bit more.

And it was Newkirk who crawled into the bunk in the late afternoon to curl up next to LeBeau as his fever soared and his chills intensified, using body heat to give his friend much needed warmth.

"_Tu vas tomber malade, imbécile_," LeBeau muttered as Newkirk wrapped his arms around him.

"At least 'ave the courtesy to insult me in English," Newkirk replied. "And it don't mmmmatter. I've already 'ad this. J-just shut up and sleep." He tucked LeBeau's head under his chin, held him tighter, and yawned.

An hour later, as the camp descended into twilight, Hogan swung open the door to his room and ushered Wilson in to check on the patient. Taking in the scene before him he smiled and put a finger to his lips. "Shhh," he said.

No one was grumpier than Wilson, but even he had to smile at what he saw. LeBeau was sound asleep in Newkirk's arms. The tough young Englishman was out cold too, with one leg thrown over his friend to provide extra warmth and protection. For two of the camp's biggest troublemakers, they looked remarkably angelic as they slept.

Hogan leaned into the bunk and gently shook Newkirk's shoulder. He woke, as he usually did, with a start, and tipped himself up on his elbow, blinking and confused. Then he looked down at LeBeau and laid a gentle hand on his forehead. LeBeau continued to slumber, breathing softly but deeply.

"I think 'is fever's c-c-c-come down a bit," Newkirk whispered. "'e was shaking like mmmmmmad before. 'elp mmme out, Gov," he added. Newkirk climbed over his sleeping friend with a hand from Hogan.

He stood next to Hogan, stretching and yawning, as Wilson put a stethoscope to LeBeau's chest and stuck a thermometer under his tongue. Then LeBeau's eyes flickered open, and Newkirk was pushing Wilson out of the way.

"Louis, mate, it's Peter," he said. "I'm right here, little mate."

"Pierre," LeBeau groaned. He grabbed Newkirk's hand. "Stay with me."

"I'm not going anywhere, Louis. I'm going to take c-care of you. You'll be all better in a few days, you'll see," Newkirk said. The shell of toughness that Newkirk usually hid behind had dropped away along with most of his stutter as he spoke gently to LeBeau. His friend needed him.

Wilson leaned down with a hand on Newkirk's shoulder. "I think you've got this, Corporal," he said. "Keep giving him water and soup, and stick by his side. He'll get better, you'll see." He patted Newkirk on the back and gave a nod to Colonel Hogan as he left. "I'll be back in the morning. Send someone if you need me before then."

After Wilson headed off, LeBeau erupted into a coughing fit.

"'elp mmmme lift 'im up, would you, Sir?" Newkirk asked Hogan. He sat at the head of the bunk and directed Colonel Hogan exactly how to position LeBeau in his lap. "The cough will be a lot easier on 'im this way," he said confidently to his commanding officer.

Hogan was kneeling beside the bunk, looking tenderly at two of his finest men. "You sure know a lot about nursing this little Frenchman," Hogan said with a smile.

Newkirk gazed down at LeBeau, and then looked up at Hogan. "I learned from the finest," he said. "And it's nothing 'e hasn't done for me an 'alf-dozen times, Sir. It's the least I can do for me little mate." He was gently rubbing LeBeau's chest as Colonel Hogan quietly left the room. His men were both in good hands.

**XXX**

Translations:

D'accord is French for OK. Certainment means certainly. And bien sûr means of course.

Appell is the German word for Rollcall.

LeBeau tells Newkirk: "You're going to get sick, you idiot."


End file.
